The Luxe
Authors: Anna Godbersen
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Adolescence, #Girls & Women, #Historical, #United States, #General
Anna Godbersen
For Suzanne and Gordon
It was the old New York way…the way of people who dreaded scandal more than disease, who placed decency above courage, and who considered that nothing was more ill-bred than “scenes,” except the behaviour of those who gave rise to them.
—Edith Wharton,
The Age of Innocence
IN LIFE, ELIZABETH ADORA HOLLAND WAS KNOWN not only for…
“THEY HAVE ALL BEEN ASKING FOR YOU,” LOUISA Holland told…
DIANA HOLLAND SAW HER MOTHER ASCEND THE twisting marble staircase…
“LITTLE BO PEEP. THAT'S TOO PERFECT FOR LIZ,” Penelope Hayes…
HENRY SCHOONMAKER PRETENDED TO STUDY THE piece of paper for…
LINA BROUD REARRANGED HER ELBOWS ON THE SILL and stared…
ELIZABETH, WRAPPED IN THE WHITE SILK KIMONO her father had…
“THE PAPERS WERE JUST FANTASTIC,” ISAAC PHILLIPS Buck put in…
SUNDAY WAS ELIZABETH HOLLAND’S SORT OF DAY, which was one…
ELIZABETH TRIED TO STOP HERSELF FROM PLAYING with the engraved…
THE HOUSE HAD GROWN SILENT. THERE SEEMED TO be nothing…
DIANA DID NOT TAKE THE HAT OFF UNTIL SEVERAL hours…
THERE WAS A STRANGE AND SUBDUED MOOD HANGING over the…
IT WAS WELL PAST TWO, AND EVERY CORNER OF THE…
PENELOPE HAYES SMILED TIGHTLY AT THE LITTLE English maid who…
HENRY’S ONE CONSOLATION WAS THAT ETIQUETTE was very clear…
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
ELIZABETH HAD MANAGED NOT TO LEAVE HER ROOM all morning…
“WAIT!” DIANA YELLED AS SHE DARTED OVER RED-AND-WHITE gingham tablecloths…
ELIZABETH HEARD THE PEALING LAUGHTER OF HER younger sister and…
PENELOPE HAYES GRIPPED HER BOSTON TERRIER, Robber, as she read…
“COME ON, RINGMASTER!” CRIED TEDDY CUTTING, shaking his fist in…
DIANA WAS ALMOST DOZING OFF IN THE STUFFY private room…
LINA HOVERED IN THE FOYER OF THE HOLLAND house, hoping…
“SO TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT?”
SITTING IN THE BALLROOM OF THE WALDORF-ASTORIA hotel felt…
PENELOPE HAD DONE IT DOZENS OF TIMES BEFORE. She pulled…
ELIZABETH HAD LEFT HER PATIENCE SOMEWHERE in the riotous streets…
LINA FOUND THE NOTE IN THE TOP DRAWER OF WILL’S…
THE FIREWORKS WERE STILL ECHOING OFF THE brick façades of…
HENRY WAS AWAKENED BY THE ROUGH SWATTING of a broadsheet…
TWO DAYS OF PARADES AND PARTIES HAD DEPLETED New York,…
THE RESENTMENT AND RAGE THAT LINA FELT FOR her mistress…
DIANA WATCHED AS HER AUNT EDITH TURNED down the hall…
AS SHE ALWAYS DID ON ANY REALLY IMPORTANT day, Penelope…
THE AFTERNOON OF HER FIRST FULL DAY OF FREEDOM, Lina…
ELIZABETH WOKE EARLY ON TUESDAY AND COULD not fall back…
WHEN LINA WOKE, SHE FOUND HERSELF IN A COLD sweat.
“THE GREATEST WEDDING OF THE NINETEENTH century,’” Penelope spat as…
“SO IT WAS NINE AT NIGHT!” DIANA EXCLAIMED AS Henry…
THAT NIGHT ELIZABETH DREAMED SHE WAS IN a faraway part…
“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?” DIANA SAID, GLOWING with joy as…
IT WAS NINE THIRTY ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, AND Elizabeth found…
DIANA HAD BEEN STANDING STILL IN HER ROOM for well…
ON THURSDAY MORNING, LINA ROUSED HERSELF AND chose a dark-colored…
“IT IS SHOCKING, UNCONSCIONABLY SHOCKING, THAT there is no sign…
DIANA HOLLAND HELD STILL AS CLAIRE CAREFULLY brushed and separated…
On the morning of October 4, 1899, Elizabeth Adora Holland—the eldest daughter of the late Mr. Edward Holland and his widow, Louisa Gansevoort Holland—passed into the kingdom of heaven. Services will be held tomorrow, Sunday the eighth, at 10 a.m., at the Grace Episcopal Church at No. 800 Broadway in Manhattan.
––
FROM THE OBITUARY PAGE OF THE
NEW YORK NEWS OF THE WORLD GAZETTE
,
SATURDAY, OCTOBER
7, 1899
I
N LIFE, ELIZABETH ADORA HOLLAND WAS KNOWN
not only for her loveliness but also for her moral character, so it was fair to assume that in the afterlife she would occupy a lofty seat with an especially good view. If Elizabeth had looked down from that heavenly perch one particular October morning on the proceedings of her own funeral, she would have been honored to see that all of New York’s best families had turned out to say good-bye.
They crowded Broadway with their black horse-drawn carriages, proceeding gravely toward the corner of East Tenth Street, where the Grace Church stood. Even though there was currently no sun or rain, their servants sheltered them with great black umbrellas, hiding their faces—etched with shock and sadness—from the public’s prying eyes. Elizabeth would have approved of their somberness and also of their indifferent attitude to the curious workaday people pressed up to the police barricades. The crowds had come to wonder at the passing of that perfect eighteen-year-old girl whose glit
tering evenings had been recounted in the morning papers to brighten their days.
A cold snap had greeted all of New York that morning, rendering the sky above an unfathomable gray. It was, Reverend Needlehouse murmured as his carriage pulled up to the church, as if God could no longer imagine beauty now that Elizabeth Holland no longer walked his earth. The pallbearers nodded in agreement as they followed the reverend onto the street and into the shadow of the Gothic-style church.
They were Liz’s peers, the young men she had danced quadrilles with at countless balls. They had disappeared to St. Paul’s and Exeter at some point and then returned with grown-up ideas and a fierce will to flirt. And here they were now, in black frock coats and mourning bands, looking grave for perhaps the first time ever.
First was Teddy Cutting, who was known for being so lighthearted and who had proposed marriage to Elizabeth twice without anyone taking him seriously. He looked as elegant as always, although Liz would have noted the fair stubble on his chin—a telltale sign of deep sorrow, as Teddy was shaved by his valet every morning and was never seen in public without a smooth face. After him came the dashing James Hazen Hyde, who had just that May inherited a majority share of the Equitable Life Assurance Society. He’d once let his face linger near Elizabeth’s gardenia-scented neck and
told her she smelled better than any of the mademoiselles in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. After James came Brody Parker Fish, whose family’s town house neighbored the Hollands’ on Gramercy Park, and then Nicholas Livingston and Amos Vreewold, who had often competed to be Elizabeth’s partner on the dance floor.
They stood still with downcast eyes, waiting for Henry Schoonmaker, who emerged last. The refined mourners could not help a little gasp at the sight of him, and not only because he was usually so wickedly bright-eyed and so regularly with a drink in hand. The tragic irony of Henry appearing as a pallbearer on the very day when he was to have wed Elizabeth seemed deeply unfair.
The horses drawing the hearse were shiny black, but the coffin was decorated with an enormous white satin bow, for Elizabeth had died a virgin. What a shame, they all whispered, blowing ghostly gusts of air into one another’s ears, that an early death was visited on such a very
good
girl.
Henry, his thin lips set in a hard line, moved toward the hearse with the other pallbearers close behind. They lifted the unusually light coffin and stepped toward the church door. A few audible sobs were muffled into handkerchiefs as all of New York realized they would never again look on Liz’s beauty, on her porcelain skin or sincere smile. There was, in fact, no Liz, for her body had not yet been recovered from the
Hudson River, despite two days of dragging it, and despite the handsome reward offered by Mayor Van Wyck.
The whole ceremony had come on rather quickly, in fact, although everyone seemed too shocked to consider this.
Next in the funeral cortege was Elizabeth’s mother, wearing a dress and a veil in her favorite color. Mrs. Edward Holland, née Louisa Gansevoort, had always seemed fearsome and remote—even to her own children—and she had only become harder and more intractable since her husband’s passing last winter. Edward Holland had been odd, and his oddness had only grown in the years before his death. He had, however, been the eldest son of an eldest son of a Holland—a family that had prospered on the little island of Manhattan since the days when it was called New Amsterdam—and so society had always forgiven him his quirks. But in the weeks before her own death, Elizabeth had noticed something new and pitiable in her mother as well. Louisa leaned a little to the left now, as though remembering her late husband’s presence.
In her footsteps was Elizabeth’s aunt Edith, the younger sister of her late father. Edith Holland was one of the first women to move prominently in society after a divorce; it was understood, though not very much discussed, that her early marriage to a titled Spaniard had exposed her to enough bad humor and drunken debauchery for a whole lifetime. She went by her maiden name now, and looked as
aggrieved by the loss of her niece as if Elizabeth had been her own child.
There followed an odd gap, which everyone was too polite to comment on, and then came Agnes Jones, who was sniffling loudly.
Agnes was not a tall girl, and though she appeared well dressed enough to the mourners still pressing against the police line for a better look, the black dress she wore would have been sadly familiar to the deceased. Elizabeth had worn the dress only once—to her father’s funeral—and then passed it down. It had since been let out at the waist and shortened at the hem. As Elizabeth knew too well, Agnes’s father had met with financial ruin when she was only eleven and had subsequently thrown himself off the Brooklyn Bridge. Agnes liked to tell people that Elizabeth was the only person who had offered her friendship in those dark times. Elizabeth had been her
best
friend, Agnes had often said, and though Elizabeth would have been embarrassed by such exaggerated statements, she wouldn’t have dreamed of correcting the poor girl.
After Agnes came Penelope Hayes, who was usually said to be Elizabeth’s
true
best friend. Elizabeth would indeed have recognized the distinct look of impatience she wore now. Penelope never liked waiting, especially out of doors. One of the lesser Mrs. Vanderbilts standing nearby recognized that look as well, and made a virtually inaudible cluck. Penelope,
with her gleaming black feathers, Egyptian profile, and wide, heavily lashed eyes, was much admired but not very generally trusted.
And then there was the fact—uncomfortable to all assembled—that Penelope had been with Elizabeth when her body disappeared into the cold waters of the Hudson. She had, everybody knew by now, been the last person to see Elizabeth alive. Not that they suspected her of anything, of course. But then, she did not look nearly haunted enough. She wore a cluster of diamonds at her throat, and on her arm, the formidable Isaac Phillips Buck.
Isaac was a distant relation of the old Buck clan—so distant that his lineage could never be proved or disproved—but he was still formidable in size, two heads taller than Penelope and robust at the middle. Liz had never cared for him; she had always harbored a secret preference for doing what was practical and right over what was clever and fine. Isaac had never seemed to her like anything more than a tastemonger, and indeed, the gold cap now on his left canine tooth matched the watch chain that extended from under his coat to his pants pocket. If that lesser Mrs. Vanderbilt standing nearby had said aloud what she was thinking—that he looked more flashy than aggrieved—he likely would have taken it as a compliment.
Once Penelope and Isaac passed, the rest of the crowd
followed them into the church, flooding the aisle with their black garb on the way to their familiar pews. Reverend Needlehouse stood quietly at the pulpit as the best families of New York—the Schermerhorns and Van Peysers, the Harrimans and Bucks, the McBreys and Astors—took their seats. Those who could no longer stop themselves, even under that lofty ceiling, began to whisper about the shocking absence.
Finally, Mrs. Holland gave the reverend a brusque nod.
“It is with heavy hearts—” Reverend Needlehouse began. It was all he managed to say before the arched door to the church went flying open, hitting the stone wall with a resounding bang. The ladies of New York’s polite class itched to turn and look, but of course decorum forbade it. They kept their elaborately coiffured heads facing forward and their eyes on Reverend Needlehouse, whose expression was not making that effort any easier.
Hurrying down the aisle was Diana Holland, the dearly departed’s little sister, with a few shining curls coming loose from under her hat and her cheeks pink from exertion. Only Elizabeth, if indeed she could look down from heaven, would have known what to make of the smile disappearing from Diana’s face as she took a seat in the first pew.